Leaving Me, Leaving You
by truglasgowgal
Summary: Why do you leave what could possibly be the best thing in your life? Because if you leave first, you don't have to watch them leave you. He has a reason for everything; even if he's the only one who can see its logic. Post-finale, with pre-series acts.


Hey there!  
This came to me a while ago, and I started reading over it this morning and quite liked it so I decided to try and complete it.

**A/N:** One of the ideas in this stemmed from a written spoiler, and in case I refer to anything else that could be termed as a possiblespoiler also, I apologise, and I'll say now: POSSIBLE SEASON TWO SPOILERS!!

Hope you like it…

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**Title:** Leaving Me, Leaving You  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Gossip Girl or any of its characters.  
**A/N:** One of the ideas in this stemmed from a written spoiler, and in case I refer to anything else that could be termed as a possiblespoiler also, I apologise, and I'll say now: POSSIBLE SEASON TWO SPOILERS!!  
**Summary:** Why do you leave what could possibly be the best thing in your life? Because if you leave first, you don't have to watch them leave you. He has a reason for everything; even if he's the only one who can see its logic. CB. Post-finale. Season 2 compliant.

_"You may not love me tomorrow, or ever, but I will love you until it kills me, and, even then, you'll be in my heart."  
__– Anonymous_

He's only ever loved two people before her: they were both female; and they both left him.

He stopped believing he deserved a happy ending years ago: he highly doubts that one more blemish on his already tarnished record will be the end of everything else.

Because it's happened twice too many times already, and he'll be damned if he just stands by and watches it happen again.

So, maybe, he's more scared than he'll ever admit of history repeating itself: but maybe, the only way to protect what little is left of his already damaged heart is to leave before he can be left.

x

No one talks about it, but he sees them watching him sometimes. They don't voice it, but he can read it in their eyes. They pity him: the boy who lost his mother and his sister. There was something different reflected in their eyes during Bart and Lily's wedding, however, something he was sure could be close to _relief_. As if they could finally silence that nagging voice in the back of their minds that reminded them of what he had gone through, what he had suffered, every time his antics hit the tabloids or they witnessed his debauchery first hand.

It was a relief for him too; less eyes following his every move was always a good thing.

He thinks he might have blurted it out to Humphrey, which is just _wonderful_; and he can only imagine what that literary-challenged loner is doing with such information.

Of course there's also the matter of the context in which he spoke of it, her. He's more than a little certain he never mentioned Effy; that was a topic never broached. A dead mother was fine; a dead child was something else entirely.

Some things remained sacred; for that much he was grateful. He'd never forgive himself if his little sister's face found its way across the society pages because he couldn't stop his tongue from running loose; it wouldn't be fair to her, it wouldn't be fair to any of them. Not to mention Bart would surely disown him or worse for such an act, deliberate or otherwise.

He's not entirely sure what he said to the Brooklyn-ite, which is slightly worrying in itself. For that to happen, he knows he must have practically emptied half the bar's supply of Scotch, the decent stuff at least; because he's been drinking since it happened, and that amount of liquor consumed over the course of five years or so is enough to make anyone's liver more tolerable. At least that's what the resident alcoholic in him says.

...

He knew they knew. Upper East Sider's might turn a blind eye to certain proclivities that their offspring had a tendency to partake in, but that was only because they were well aware of what was happening and would rather pretend it wasn't. And so they watched him from afar as he fell into a seemingly bottomless pit of alcohol and girls; but never drugs, weed was as far as he'd ever go, his brain was already addled enough, and he didn't want anymore nightmares than he already had; the voices and images were haunting enough without them riddling his drug-infused psyche as well.

And he let them watch: because seeing the guilt on their faces was better than looking in the mirror and seeing just how distraught he truly was.

His mother died when he was in sixth grade. As did his sister.

He knew it was his fault; knew he'd driven her to it (no pun intended).

He thinks he might have uttered something along the lines of, "I killed my mother" in the bar, or something equally as dramatic; but he can't be entirely sure.

He knows Humphrey will take these words literally, of course, and because he doesn't know what happened, he may even feel sorry for the Bass boy who drowns himself in alcohol and women to rid himself of the guilt of his mother's death.

Truth is, liquor doesn't wash away blood quite like the movies and poets say it does; and no amount of brunettes with striking eyes will ever bring either of them back to him.

Though one did try; and damn near nearly succeeded too.

He is well aware of the fact he didn't _literally_ kill his mother. But at times, he feels he may as well have.

The guilt eats away at him each day, and there's nothing he can do to rid it from his skin, embedded so deeply as it is in his very core.

...

It was one of the Upper East Side's "_greatest tragedies_"; a title he scoffs at, because really, who wants to have such a thing held in relation to them anyway? Oh, the sympathy's wonderful: polite and reserved, as it should be in such society. But when you're called away from class to the Principal's office and informed of the "situation", and then have to bury your four-year-old sister and your mother on the same day, said _condolences_ don't exactly do much to ease the pain.

He doesn't remember the weather, or the time; such things seem trivial in comparison to the weight of such news. He does, however, remember his father's limo pulling up to the front gates of the school moments after the news broke. He remembers his father appearing before him in what seemed like no less than two strides. And he remembers the salt of his father's tears as he pulled him into his embrace, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed his head; telling him that everything would be alright.

It wasn't though.

It was never _alright_ after that day. Not by a long shot.

The only thing that happened was that both Bass men learned to live without half of their family; pretending every day that there was not two large, gaping holes where two Bass females should have complimented their male set.

There was no point rehashing the past, really; and so neither father nor son ever brought up the subject of mother or daughter again.

Bart pretended that there was nothing in the fact that he insisted his son always took the limo and never the town-car; and Chuck pretended too.

Because they were good at pretending, father and son.

So good that the Upper East Side soon learned to forget Misty Bass and her young daughter Elizabeth, and the terrible heartbreak that had been bestowed upon their family.

No one mentioned the increase in limo-usage by the various patrons at his school, nor the disruption no doubt caused to many's route to work or to shop or general travel time when there was extensive work carried out at a particular junction midway between the Bass's home and work and education establishments.

No one mentioned such things because they knew, just as he did, that it could have just as easily been any one of them.

He remembers passing by the scene as he and his father made their way to the hospital; it was all mangled metal and aggravated asphalt, and the only thing in the air was the smell of burning flesh.

He wonders if he's the only one who can still smell it when he passes that corner.

He wonders if he's the only one who refuses to cross at the lights there; even though his father had the whole system redesigned specifically.

He wonders if he's the only one who stops short of stepping into anything smaller than a stretch limo; a bus, a helicopter, a plane, anything else is fine, Hell, even the Metro would be acceptable. But never a car.

He wonders if he's the only one who sees their faces staring back at him from across the street when he reaches that exact spot.

He wonders if he's the only one still carrying the past around with him everyday.

...

Afterwards, people often said he was cold without meaning to be; but it's not his fault he breathes through dead spirits and lives in the shadow of ghostly pallor.

Because no one ever tells you what happens after your parent or sibling dies? Do you stop having a sister because she's no longer alive? Do you become an only child and your father a single parent? Or do you not need titles because everyone is well aware of what you are; what you were; what you'll never be again?

...

Dan Humphrey can try all he wants; he can bed as many golden-haired It Girls as he likes; date as many too, but he will never understand what it is like to live in the Upper East Side. Not really. He will never understand why, at the end of the day, the Non-Judging Breakfast Club would stick together, through everything, no matter what the situation or when. Because in a time of great need: they were there for one another.

And nothing that happens in any of their lives will likely ever compare to Chuck Bass's mother and baby sister burning alive in their town car a block away from their school.

How could it?

It was one of the Upper East Side's _greatest tragedies_, after all.

...

And how could he possibly hold himself in anyway accountable for such an atrocity?

Because like the absolute terror he was in his youth; he drove his mother crazy. Not literally; though she liked to remind him with a careless laugh just how close she was to embodying such a state, if he continued his ways.

And it wasn't the fact that his father had taken him to school in the limo, leaving his mother with the town-car that made him feel responsible.

It wasn't the fact that the only reason she had been on that road in the first place was because she was dropping off his scarf, which he'd left at home that morning.

It wasn't even the fact that after it all, his father had told him it wasn't his fault; that she was on that road, at that time, in that car. Someone only tried to placate your guilt when you were actually guilty of something, but he already knew he'd lost his innocence; his soul had become burnt somewhere between the screech of tires and the scrape of metal; the scorch of flames and disintegrating cries for help.

It was the absolute adoration his mother had for him. It was in the way she looked at him, the way she smiled at him, the way she spoke to him, held him.

It was in the way she loved him, that he had killed her.

He's not sure it even makes sense; but there's logic in there somewhere. And either way, it's how he feels. He's not been able to rid himself of the feeling for more than five years, and he doubts he'll be able to do so now.

He can't remember her last words to him, or his to her. But he remembers her breath on his cheek as she kissed him goodbye. He remembers the tender caress of his hair as she ruffled it affectionately. He remembers that easy smile she gave him, and the loose wave of her hand.

He doesn't remember watching them leave, but he remembers a glint of light catching his eyes and seeing one of his mother's diamond earrings lying near the storm-drain by the crossing; his sister's tiny pink teddy resting in the middle of the lane, half of its face singed a sickening black, its ear almost disintegrated, it's right eye hanging precariously loose.

He doesn't remember hearing a crash, though many of his peers claimed to. He seemed deaf to the sirens too, all of them; police, fire, ambulance. He heard every scream after though; somewhere amid all the chaos and noise; he heard a piercing wail, words that burned like ash on the tongue. He doesn't think he's heard silence since.

...

On one of their quieter days, she once asked him how he could smoke. She hadn't said it explicitly, but the implication was there all the same: how can you stand the smell, the taste, knowing it was the last thing your family saw; the last thing they smelled, tasted, _felt_, before they died?

He thinks, in some sort of twisted way, it gives them a bond. He choked and his eyes watered when Eric accidentally put his finger on a live wire one time, and he couldn't even look at his brother's skin, barely even red raw. He puts it down to the masochist in him.

Maybe if he suffers enough on the outside, it'll eventually cleanse him inside.

He has a lot of inner hopes like this.

He doesn't expect much to come of them.

...

He knows no one will likely understand; knows the one person who is closest to doing so has somehow found a way to work through it all.

He only wishes he could do the same; but he knows he can't.

Because, unlike his father, he still sees their faces; he still feels his sister's tiny hand clasped in his, still feels his mother's fingers caressing their way across his hair; and now he feels the ghost of her lips' on his own.

That alone was enough to stop him short; neither his father relinquishing his words of pride; nor the hurt he knew he'd cause her could deter him from what he knew he had to do.

...

Why do you let go of something you worked so hard to obtain?

Because suddenly its worth has become more apparent than ever, and the realization hits that if you don't leave, you'll be left a victim once again.

Why do you leave what could possibly be the best thing in your life?

What do you do if you're afraid of everyone leaving you?

You make them stay.

And if you can't do that? Or you don't know how to?

You do what any person who's scared of being left does: because if you leave first, you don't have to watch them leave you.

...

So, maybe, he was scared.

Maybe he was, in fact, absolutely terrified.

Maybe, just maybe, he was so frozen by the fear of repetition he turned to the only thing he could rely on: himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he screwed up the best thing that had ever happened to him because he cared; he cared too damn much to allow history to repeat itself.

He loved her, and he'd be damned if she suffered because of him.

He wasn't a martyr, just a boy in love, trying to do the right thing when the rest of the world was against him.

Chuck Bass was in love with Blair Waldorf; that was something that would never change, but it was something she could never know.

**  
The End.**

"_Love is when the other person's happiness is more important than your own."  
_– _H. Jackson Brown Jr._

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Apologies for the… bittersweet (?) ending, but it fit.

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you thought of it.  
Steph  
xxx


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